Comments by "Nono Yorbusness" (@nonoyorbusness) on "Andrew Lawrence"
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Boris's parting speech:
To you all now I say farewell,
Now that the country's gone to hell,
We met them on the beaches,
we met them on the landing grounds, we met them in the fields and in the streets,
we put them up in the five star hotels,
and army camps and let them roam freely,
To (terra roar rise) the local inhabitants,
We shall never (de port) them!
We have totally surrendered,
Sinking you into the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by my governments perversion of medical science.
We have therefore disgraced ourselves, ignored our duties, and so borne ourselves that, if the British Isle manages to last for a few more years, men will still say,
'That was their most pathetic hour.'
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Boris's parting speech:
To you all now I say farewell,
Now that the country's gone to hell,
We met them on the beaches,
we met them on the landing grounds, we met them in the fields and in the streets,
we put them up in the five star hotels,
and army camps and let them roam freely,
To (terra roar rise) the local inhabitants,
We shall never (de port) them!
We have totally surrendered,
Sinking you into the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by my governments perversion of medical science.
We have therefore disgraced ourselves, ignored our duties, and so borne ourselves that, if the British Isle manages to last for a few more years, men will still say,
'That was their most pathetic hour.'
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Our revels now are ended.
All our creations, and achievements
As I foretold you, were all illusions, and
Are melted into air,
And like the baseless fabric of a vision,
The cloud-capping sky machines, the technological marvels,
Our civilisation, that spanned the great globe itself,
Yea, all which our children should inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like an insubstantial pageant fade,
Leave not a rack behind.
We were such stuff
As dreams were made on;
Now our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
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Do you not regret your politically correct deeds?
Ay, that I had not done a thousand more.
Even now I curse the day—and yet, I think,
Few come within the compass of my curse,—
Wherein I did not some notorious ill,
As kill a man, or else devise his death,
Ravish a maid, or plot the way to do it,
Accuse some innocent and forswear myself,
Set deadly enmity between two friends,
Make poor men's cattle break their necks;
Set fire on barns and hay-stacks in the night,
And bid the owners quench them with their tears.
Oft have I digg'd up dead men from their graves,
And set them upright at their dear friends' doors,
Even when their sorrows almost were forgot;
And on their skins, as on the bark of trees,
Have with my knife carved in Roman letters,
'Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead.'
Tut, I have done a thousand dreadful things
As willingly as one would kill a fly,
And nothing grieves me heartily indeed
But that I cannot do ten thousand more.
William Shakespeare, Titus Andronicus
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